Mosadi o ya sekolang

Note: For the privacy of the people involved, names have been altered and pictures of the Shakawe Senior Secondary School have been taken from public sources.

*Shakawe Senior Secondary School courtyard (used for assemblies)*

The students rise as I enter the classroom and whispers begin to circulate amongst the crowd. I fall in line behind the head teacher, and she beckons for one of the students to give me a chair. I hesitate to sit down, though, because the students are still standing and looking between me and their teacher, Mma S.

“Good morning,” Mma S. says, and the students reply with the same greeting. They look towards me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. From the school assembly that morning, they only know my name and my country of origin, but even that is enough to pique their interest.

“Do you want to hear her introduce herself?” Mma S. asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” they reply, polite as ever.

So, I finally open my mouth, looking at each face in the class as I say, “Good morning, everyone. I am Ms. Young, and I am from the United States…from New Jersey, if any of you know where that is.” They look perplexed, and some shake their heads, so I add, “It’s just south of New York.” A look of recognition passes over their faces. The students have seen New York City in countless movies and television shows, but a lot of them have not even been as far as Gaborone.

As I sit down and the lesson begins, I take in each of the students in their crisp black-and-yellow uniforms. Most wear a jacket and tie, a vest, or a checkered dress that falls to their knees. They listen attentively as Mma S. goes through a review of one of their papers, a collection of reading comprehension exercises. The students read a passage, and then, Mma S. asks for volunteers to say an answer to the given questions. They answer each one, but they are quiet and rather hesitant to raise their hands.

“I think they are quiet because of you, Ms. Young,” Mma S. says, but her accent makes my name sound more like Ms. Yawn.

“Don’t be scared of me,” I say, smiling and trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. I sense some nervous energy buzzing throughout the room.

“We are only quiet because we are grateful for you. We are honored that you are here,” one of the students near the front of the room volunteers. I am taken aback. They wear their silence like a badge of honor.

*A view of Shakawe Senior, including a sign to prevent teenage pregnancy*

At the end of class, Mma S. has some of the students introduce themselves, and they each tell me their names. I struggle to pronounce most of them, especially because they whisper them so quietly with their heads pointed towards the floor. I bend down low just to hear them. Even so, the class is soon laughing every time I say a name. The syllables catch in my throat whenever I try to get the sound right.

Most of the classes I attend at Shakawe Senior Secondary School go the same way. A teacher bursts into the English workroom and pulls me along to their classroom. The students look at me in awe. I sit in one corner of the room watching the students, answering questions, or sometimes leading exercises. Then, I leave feeling fulfilled and inspired. It is a glorious cycle.

———————

Wherever you go, kids will still be kids.

They will giggle behind their hands when the teacher says something unintentionally funny. They will react the same when their classmate is called to the office. They will cower in their chair when they don’t know the answer to a question. They will whisper something to their friends in class, only stopping when the teacher calls them out.

I see similarities everywhere.

Even so, the differences still shock me. Discipline is of the utmost importance in Botswana. Students are expected to be respectful and polite to administrators and teachers. They must keep their hair and uniforms well-kept, and teachers often point out if a student has not gotten a haircut or if they have a wrinkle in their uniform. Corporal punishment is legal here, and I have heard the echoes of beatings through the halls. But even though disciplinary actions are drastic, that is the culture here. I am not here to judge it or change it even if my views may be different.

———————

The English workroom is where I often find myself, sitting and listening to the teachers talk in a language I don’t yet understand. Periodically, English words are thrown in when there is no word for something in Setswana, and I’ll be able to piece together the conversation. For the most part, though, I’m in the dark unless someone chooses to translate.

Sometimes, the teachers are discussing their personal lives and their children. Most of the time, though, they are discussing work, lesson planning, or, just complaining about their students. Like a lot of the teenagers that I’ve come across in America, the students will often do the bare minimum, copy from their classmates, or miss key points in their assignments. The Shakawe Senior teachers often identify it as laziness or a lack of intelligence, but I am not so sure.

*One of my favorite design aspects of Shakawe Senior, this gorgeous brick ramp that goes up to the second floor*

I should note before I continue that these students are, for the most part, polyglots. Most speak two, if not three or four, languages at school and at home. This means that they are constantly navigating their way through multiple grammatical structures and verb tenses. I mean, I took Spanish for a year and somehow kept adding French words into my compositions, so I can only imagine how difficult it is to keep the words straight in their minds.

Nevertheless, Shakawe Senior particularly falls behind in English compared to other schools in Botswana.They struggle with spelling and syntax, but I think that this is because they are more comfortable speaking than writing English. They need help learning how to phrase things and how to express themselves effectively. But this is where I shine, thinking critically about language and figuring out the best ways to say what I mean. So maybe while I am here, I’ll be able to make an impact on how they see the English language, even if it is only through my funny little accent.

———————

I sit quietly, marking compositions in the English workroom as my colleagues move in and out of the room. Mma S. has given me student books to look over, so I pour every bit of my energy into looking over every sentence, extracting the meaning from every phrase. The compositions often have a prompt, either a topic or a phrase for the students to incorporate into their piece. I come across one prompt: “Once Bitten, Twice Shy.” Although I have an idea of what it means, I look it up. A person who has failed or been hurt when trying to do something is careful or fearful about doing it again.

This one phrase seemed to poignantly capture something about my life before and after coming to Botswana. I am a very cautious and introspective person, as many of my friends and family know well. I like to be in control of my life and my body. I like my comfort zone.

But since coming here, I have been bitten. I have had to adjust to the ways of life in Botswana. I have failed and been tested many times. In the face of water outages, I’ve gone several days without cleaning dishes or bathing properly. I have tried and sometimes failed to learn Setswana. I’m still figuring out how to burn my trash in my backyard (note to self: don’t strike matches on a windy day). When I was younger, these trials might have scared me or deterred me. Now, though, I trust myself — my knowledge, my strength, and my ability to innovate. I’ve asked my colleagues to teach me a new Setswana word every day. I’ve learned how to wash my clothes without a washing machine. When the water goes out, I’ve learned to collect water in any container I can find. I have become more sustainable, refusing to waste food, electricity, or water when it is scarce.

I am as far from my comfort zone as I can get, but maybe I will become better because of it.

poetic interlude #2 - cremation

Wareng, Warona?